


Butterfly, Pop, Yippee, Washing Machine

by abyssith



Series: A Candy Cane Scarf From A Well-Dressed Dwarf [1]
Category: Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan
Genre: A little angst, ASL, Angst/Comfort, Asgard, Blitzen is in denial, Blitzstone, Butterflies, Fluff, Hearth is my cinnabun drunkard, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I need to get better at fluff halp me, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Midnight, Midnight counseling, Pop - Freeform, Post-Sword Of Summer, Some book-canon details, Yippee, actions speak louder than words, angsty fluff, otp, washing machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abyssith/pseuds/abyssith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blitz quickly moves onto the third word. Yippee. It was such a young, comical word, Blitz can't even imagine --<br/>And then it hits him.<br/>Why else would his heart feel too small to contain his ecstasy for Hearth?</p><p>OR:</p><p>The one where Blitz is a big ball of nerves and denial in the middle of the night, and Hearth is unintentionally summoned down to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly, Pop, Yippee, Washing Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Literally, when I read The Sword of Summer a second time over and got to the part where Hearth was pretty much drunk on knockedoutness in Jotunheim, I had to write a fic on it. Plus Blitzstone is now my BOOKTP (that's a thing now yes), so...this happened. Bear with me. More than half of it was written at...oh, 1-2:00 in the morning. Also, though it's being slowly beta-ed and re-beta-ed by me, there may be minuscule mistakes I will miss. Again, written at *looks at time* 2:03 AM. Cheers.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own nor do I pretend to own Magnus Chase: The Sword of Summer in the entirety of its content. All characters, settings, mentioned plot lines, etc. belongs solely to Rick Riordan, his team, and whoever the Helheim created Norse mythology.

He supposes he should be getting some sleep, but he just can't. Which is funny, because he tends to crash out the second his head hits the pillow.

But who can blame him? He'll be getting up in...oh, six hours, or so, to celebrate the grand opening of his little fashion joint on Newbury Street, Blitzen's Best. No one can condemn Blitzen for feeling nervous. It's just impossible for him to sleep right now. His heart had abandoned its usual place in his chest hours ago and now resides in his throat, where he can feel every individual heartbeat vibrating against his skin, a tiny thundercloud that rumbles repetitively every second. It's distracting, to say the least.

Blitz sighs and turns in his bed so that his left cheek is pressed against his down-filled pillow. He stares to the side of his room in Asgard (courtesy of Odin, since his best friend already resided there), where he'd been staying while he made trips back and forth from Nidavellir to Midgard, moving the few belongings he had to the little apartment above his store in Boston. Magnus and Hearth had alternatively helped him move in, with the former being present the most. Hearth's usual absence was a slightly unfortunate fact already set in stone, since the elf was more interested in learning rune magic from Odin than helping little fashion-crazed Blitzen attempt to fold chainmail trousers or hang up bulletproof silk shirts (okay, maybe that wasn't completely true, but maybe Blitz had an occasional tendency to put himself down. Not as much as Hearth does, mind you, but it was there). It kind of hurt, but Blitz was happy for his elf friend. He would be worth less than a soul in Helheim if he couldn't find the capacity to rejoice with Hearth in his rune magic teachings, whether or not the time they now spent together had to have been reduced.

Funny. His stomach just did something flippy inside of him when Blitz thought of the deaf elf. It was weird, their friendship. Blitz could never understand it, but from the very first day that they met, when Blitz found a half dead elf curled in a fetal position on the floor of his living quarters, skin pale and gray with his green veins so dark and highlighted that they looked like emerald deltas just barely contained, Blitz had immediately known that he had to save Hearthstone. Maybe it was the wispy, bleached blond hair that was so drained of color it was basically white. Perhaps it was the look of terror and instant alarm when he woke up in a strange dwarf's house on a heat-generating bed, that quickly faded to an expression of complete and utter trust when all it took was Blitz raising his hands up and saying, "Please. Don't worry. I'm trying to help you." (Turned out that even though Hearth was deaf and Blitz didn't know that, he was already decent enough at reading lips prior to their meeting). Whatever it was, it was like the elf had been a crucial part of the coding of his life, and without it, he'd be incomplete forever. And so he did. Whipped up that tanning bed like it was the end of the world (and he knows what that feels like, now) and hurled Hearth on it, saving the life of a man he didn't know.

And now he does know Hearth, and Blitz finds himself wishing for his company. Many a night they had slept together, even before they were sworn into Mimir's service and were tasked with watching the kid. Especially in Boston, they always slept in close quarters with each other. At first it was a little awkward, only meant as a mechanism to battle the cold, but as time went on, it became second nature to both Blitz and Hearth, and weather wasn't always a defining factor. Although Hearth was taller and generally the better equipped of the duo, he had always been the quieter, more seemingly vulnerable one. And it was easy to figure out why, considering Hearth's tortured childhood and abuse in Alfheim and whatnot.

So Blitz would always do his best to drag Hearthstone close to him, and then he'd nestle Hearth's head into the crook of his neck. Sometimes Blitz would try and tangle their legs together, which was hard, since Blitz's legs were considerably shorter than the elf's, but it made him feel protected nevertheless. Then Blitz would crane his neck up, prop his chin on Hearth's head, and close his eyes, breathing in the same air as the elf in his arms with contentment, their arms clasped tightly around each other. No matter where they were, no matter the situation, no matter what the state their friendship was in, sleeping with Hearth was like inhaling a potent drug that gave him instant relief and peace. Most nights their rest was uninterrupted and smooth, but there were a few times when Blitz would suddenly wake up, gasping as the sounds of Hearth's sobs and screams ripped him from his dreams of velvet scarves and satin neckties. The elf would be crying, sometimes silently, sometimes in a barely audible voice that Blitz quietly and somewhat guiltily thought would be a very handsome, silky one if Hearth was able to properly speak. And Blitz would comfort him, an act long become an automatic instinct, hushing him gently and murmuring words of affectionate promises and consolation. Eventually Hearth would fall asleep in Blitz's arms, still propped up in his lap, and the dwarf would know that his friend had passed out when a sudden weight would burden his right shoulder. Warmth would penetrate Blitzen's gut, and he'd lay Hearth down without another word.

If he were here now, Blitzen thinks, frowning as he tries to press into the plush mattress even more than he was already, I'd be able to sleep, no problem.

But he wasn't. Same as those nights when Magnus was helping him with his store, not Hearth. Nothing could really be done about it. He knew that Hearth was here, though, too, in this godly building resembling an industrial-sized apartment complex up on Asgard, a few rooms down. It had become Hearth's permanent living quarters, unquestioned by everyone else, since Hearth's whereabouts were insisted upon by Odin. But Blitz doesn't really want to bother him. 'I have a sudden case of insomnia right now and I feel like it'd be better if my best friend slept with me' wasn't exactly the best nor most persuading conversation starter. 

So he assumes he'll just try to get through the next six hours as quietly as possible. Maybe take a cat nap -- no, not cats. No more cats. He prefers not to think about his mother right now.

He groans and flips over, burying his head in the pillow. Just get some sleep, Blitzen...you need it.

Yet it was all too easy to picture Hearth's arms creeping over his waistline, threading his fingers together against the small of Blitz's back. That rather than a pillow, his head was resting on Hearth's chest, the scent of apple pie, cinnamon, and a warm fire wafting into his nostrils due to his face being stuffed into the candy-cane striped scarf that eternally cushioned Hearth's neck. His aroma alone was enough to lull Blitzen to sleep. Here, alone in his room, the only smell is mead and leftover seasoned goat ribs. 

Wow. Blitz really needs some help if he's able to imagine Hearth's scent this vividly and realistically.

Fifteen irritation-filled minutes later, Blitz exhales through his nose and props himself up on his bed, a thoughtful frown on his lips and a considering line etched into his forehead between his eyebrows. Maybe, if Hearth can't be here to accompany him, then the second-best thing will have to do.

Blitz begins to rack his brain for his favorite memories of Hearth. Unsurprisingly, it isn't hard at all. What is surprising, however, is the memory that comes to mind. It was one of the days that they spent in Jotunheim, when Blitz and Hearth were sitting on the windowsill of the frost giant's palace. He had expected to recall the night they shared in the two-man tent while Magnus, Sam, and Sumarbrander -- sorry, Jack -- sleeping outside. But the one he draws forth will do, he supposes.

Blitz had been in absolute discomfort and agony, and it felt like someone had ripped him open, taken out all of the organs that mattered, and then put them back in his abdomen in all the wrong places. Hearth had been leaning against him -- or was Blitz leaning against Hearth? -- unable to do anything else, completely out of it. It had been a little unsettling to hear the vocalized giggles coming from Hearth's mouth, once again in that charming voice that Blitz wished he could hear all the time. It was even more unsettling (but equally as hilarious) to see Hearth making very odd signs in ASL, his face lit up in a silly expression that made him look decades younger and more vulnerable.

What had Hearth signed? Blitz thinks, now lying on his back again, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Butterflies. Pop. Yippee. And...washing machine.

Maybe it's just his fevered mind, already very low on sleep and having been thinking only about his future as a fashion designer, but Blitz begins to think about those words to a greater depth. He knows that Hearth meant nothing more with his signs than a slightly delusional elf would, but he can't help it. And so, thanks to his Hearthstone-themed state of mind right now, he begins to really think about the quest that they had just participated in with Magnus and Sam. He begins to ponder the growth of his friendship with the elf. How they've grown closer, acting as Magnus's 'parents' in Boston. Sharing a tent in Jotunheim. Getting Fenris's claws ripped across his throat, nearly rendering him dead, and regaining just enough consciousness to hear Hearth's vocalized scream and to see blast of light from what he knew was Hearth's staff in front of his closed eyelids. He isn't known for being a poetic dwarf, but there's a first time for everything. Certainly a first time for this.

Butterfly, Blitz remembers first. That one's easy, and he decides on, What lives in my stomach whenever he's around. He doesn't know if that having your gut jump off of a diving board and suddenly plummet into an everlasting dive consisting of twists and turns whenever his best friend walked around was normal, seeing as Hearth was his only friend other than Magnus (and it certainly never happened around that kid, but he puts it down to being it more of a fraternal relationship), but it was true. More than true, really. The statement 'there are butterflies in my stomach' never even begins to match the way that Blitzen feels when Hearth stands beside him, grinning with that little playful, youthful glint in his icy smoke-colored eyes. Butterflies...more like Jormungand-sized dragons, threatening to clog up his airways. It used to be really bad, but the more time he spent around the elf, the better it got. Well, it wasn't gone, more like Blitz had just learned to control it better. To others, they probably came off as an especially close pair of friends, nothing more. But even that took years to achieve. When people saw homeless Magnus with Blitz and Hearth, referring to them as his 'mom and dad'? No one had any idea what that did to Blitz, deep inside of him. 

Pop. Okay, that one is harder. Blitz has to think for a little while, focusing on the fireplace across from his bed. A few coals are glowing underneath the stacks of logs, but he had put it out before he clambered into bed that night. Some of them will sizzle or hiss every so often, and for some reason, it reminds him of Nidavellir. He remembers the feeling he got back down there, during the contest with Junior. When Magnus and Hearth and Sam the Horsefly all pitched in to make sure that he won. It felt like...like...

Like my heart was trying to expand out of my chest, Blitz suddenly realizes. It wanted to pop. He draws another recollection of that same feeling, a little earlier in Nidavellir, right after the contest was announced. Sam and Hearth had rushed into the barroom, and the second that those ashen, glacier-colored eyes had landed on Blitz, the dwarf had found himself nearly tackled by eager arms and an overwhelming sense of relief that he could practically smell on Hearth's skin.

No, that was his normal cinnamon scent. 

He could have even sworn he felt lips press against the bare skin of his neck, if not just for a second, but at the time, he had been so crestfallen and hopeless that he, regretfully in retrospect, hardly paid attention to Hearth's embrace. Meaning that Blitzen can't have been sure if Hearth had...had...had kissed him, but what if he had?

How would he have reacted?

With a start, Blitz realizes that this is the first time that he has ever remembered that incident. It's even worse when he finds that he feels guilty. 

Unable to think farther upon that time, Blitz quickly moves onto the third word. Yippee. He snorts, grinning despite himself. He was surprised he even knew what that sign meant, since he couldn't remember a single time that Hearth had ever used it. It was such a young, comical word, Blitz couldn't imagine --

And then it hits him.

Without warning, a rush of images floods into his head. Samirah and Amir Fadlan at the food court. The way they looked at each other. The way they conversed. The blush in Sam's neck whenever the other boy would direct a question or a statement at her. For the first time in his life, it's all too familiar to Blitzen. He has never figured out why his face always feels so hot when he was with Hearth, or why Magnus has never called attention to it, but now he does. It makes him feel really stupid, since spending the amount of time that he did in Midgard around humans should have clued him in months ago. But of course, it has to happen now, when he was too deep in it, clueless and oblivious and probably having done many questionable things prior to this realization, in a dark room in Asgard when Hearth is sleeping three doors down. Because why else would his stomach heave like a Viking longboat filled with a thousand drunk thunder gods? Why else would his heart feel too small to contain his ecstasy for Hearth?

Because, when Blitz is really thinking about that day in his childhood home, he realizes that the way he would've reacted if Hearth had kissed him on the collarbone was by shouting a hundred 'yippees'.

So naturally, when Blitz, his knees weaker than month-old jello, his breath hitching like he had a cork stuck in his throat, thinks about the last sign, 'washing machine', it comes the easiest out of all of them. It's what his innards will feel like they're in tomorrow morning when he sees Hearth for the last time for a few months, since he'll be incredibly busy with the crowds that Blitzen's Best will most certainly get and Hearth will be nose-deep in rune magic textbooks. 

And of course, since Blitz's late-night brainstorm about a handsome, staff-swinging, heart-stealing deaf elf was clearly strong enough to broadcast into said elf's mind, the particular moment in which his body becomes a human washing machine comes six hours too soon. This is since as Blitz buries his head in his hands, trying desperately to think of a way to salvage this friendship he had taken for granted because Hearth is sure to disown him in horror when he finds out that a certain dwarven son of Freya might just perhaps be maybe in love with him, there's a soft, hesitant knock on his door.

Blitz freezes in bed, knowing very well who's standing behind it. Because who else would be knocking at his door at one in the morning?

He's running a hand through his hair (which is always combed neatly due to his annoyingly active habit of looking charming and as charismatic as a svartalf can) and trying to straighten his cotton undershirt that he had worn under his suit yesterday as he slowly swings his legs out of bed and makes his way to the door. Taking a deep breath, Blitz forces on a normal expression, because Hearth has no way of knowing that he's feeling weirdly. It takes all of his willpower to turn the doorknob and swing the door open, trying to look groggy as if he had been sleeping for a while. "Hey, Hearth," he fake-yawns, rubbing his forehead, pretending he's too tired with the heavy sensation of someone just waking up to try and sign.

But since Hearth has spent enough time with him, reading his facial expression and lips and eyes and eyebrows to understand a new message from Blitz every time he speaks instead of signs, the elf is smart enough to know that he's bluffing. And Hearth immediately calls him out on it. 

You haven't slept, he signs, a frown crossing his face.

Blitz hesitates, and then drops his head. Maybe he hasn't slept, but right now, he is legitimately too tired to pretend he doesn't know what Hearth is talking about. He halfheartedly sighs, which would usually be answer enough for anyone who could hear, but unfortunately, more was needed. He makes himself look back up at Hearth, who's still staring at him expectantly, seeking an explanation. "Yeah, that's true," he admits, at first with his mouth. Then he falls into signs, making it easier for the elf. Just my nerves, he tries to assure Hearth. Big day tomorrow, right? It can't be helped. He pauses, and then falls back into speech. "Wait, why did you come by? It's, what, one in the morning?"

Hearth is still for a few seconds, clearly deciding on an answer, before shrugging and signing, Like you. Couldn't sleep. Thought maybe you were the same way and could help. He tells Blitzen the last part a little slower, a little bit of lime spreading through his cheeks.

Blitz swallows hard. He hopes Hearth had somehow missed the action, but to Hearth's credit, if the latter did see it, he said -- or rather, signed -- nothing. 

The dwarf decides right then and there that he was going to have a serious talk with whatever Norse deity was in charge of writing his life and fate. Just his luck, the night that he realizes he's been in love with Hearth since the day they met, Hearth shows up at his door, basically asking to sleep with him for the night.

No, Blitzen, Blitz scolds himself instantly after thinking the last part, mentally wincing. Staying with me. Not sleeping with me. Not sleeping with me.

A gently persistent hand on his shoulder presses Blitz for an answer, which he gives in the form of the first thought that had energetically sprang to his mind when he realized what Hearth was asking for. Managing to pull a convincing grin (at least, he hopes it is), Blitz agrees, "Yeah! Of course, bud. Actually, I was also thinking about asking you for some...company."

Why didn't you? asks Hearth, looking genuinely puzzled. Answer is always yes.

It's impossible for Blitz to think of a lie that would be as good as the truth. Of course, he fails. It's in these moments when he seriously wishes that Loki was his father. His children always had knack for quick thinking and realistic reasoning. So, since Blitz is all but ready to say anything to the elf yet, he changes the subject. "We're literally standing in my doorway in our jammies." Neither of them brings up the fact that Blitz is dressed in an undershirt and comfortable yet somehow crisp slacks that are decent enough to wear to a loose dress-coded tea party, or that Hearth is literally wearing the same black clothes and striped scarf he always does, minus the leather jacket (which is cancelled out by the fact that while his current T-shirt is navy, it's equally as dark). "Can we continue this conversation in my room? Er, seeing as the sleeping part would be greatly appreciated by an insomniac like me?"

More like a narcoleptic, Hearth contradicts Blitz when they retreat back into the dwarf's temporary quarters, closing the door behind them. 

Blitz rolls his eyes and chuckles, "You've always been the heavier sleeper, pal."

Cause I do all the work.

"Ooh," Blitz hums as he slugs Hearth on the shoulder, packing just the right amount of power to annoy the elf but not hurt him (and he must admit, it comes very easily now). "I'll get you for that."

You just did.

The pair stand by the table for a minute, awkwardly, and Blitz gets the feeling he should say something. Since law apparently ordered Blitz into saying the weirdest things at random times, he picks up his practically empty goblet of mead and stammers, "Uhm, would you care for some mead?"

Hearth raises an eyebrow and signs skeptically, Reading lips is hard in the dark. You just offer me some mead? Out of that?

"Half full, as I always like to say."

Less mead in there than a mouse's share. Hearth drops his hands, a soundless sigh coming from partially open lips. He meets Blitz's eyes, and, quite startlingly, abruptly asks, Why are you still awake?

"Stress. Excitement. Nerves. Natural tendency to get overworked about a huge event in your life. Take your pick," offers Blitz, the words coming automatically for once.

No. Really. Hearth doesn't sign anything for a while, but Blitz somehow knows that he's not done. And he's right, because Hearth, though slightly hesitantly and very, clearly, nervously continues, Remember when I briefly entered your minds in Lyngvi?

"...Sure." Blitz begins to get a cold feeling in his chest.

The elf's hands are trembling a tiny bit. It happens when my mind believes it is needed in the presence of another.

What was that Blitz had thought? That the wild thinking of the elf had summoned him? 

In his head he begins to list off every colorful obscenity and every creative combination of profanity that he had ever heard Thor or Magnus use. And by Odin's beard, it is a lot. Still, not enough to distract him properly. Blitz doesn't trust his mouth to speak for him. Really? he signs back. That's...pretty cool. How about you teach me sometime? For now, we can sleep. 

Blitz frantically reaches forward with his free hand to guide Hearth to the bed with him, because if this conversation continues the way he thinks it will, sleeping in the same bed together will be the last thing either of them wanted. But Hearth steps back, fixes Blitz with a pair of eyes that, for once in Blitz's life with Hearth, cannot be read, and signs very, very slowly so that there was no way Blitz can misread his hands, I heard you thinking about me. 

The goblet falls from Blitz's hand and shatters on the floor, sending shards of glass and the remainder of the mead splattering everywhere.

Immediately Hearth kneels down to clean it up, and maybe Blitz should have let him, for sake of a fortunate interruption and possible end to the conversation, but he doesn't. Instead he does the worst possible thing, lunging forward to grip Hearth's shoulders and drag him halfway back up. Holding him at eye level, their noses nearly touching (of course, that was an accident), Blitzen's heart pounding so loud he half expects Hearth to question it, he says in a low voice, "What did you hear?"

Hearth looks bewildered, and that look alone is enough to make Blitz want to sigh in relief. The elf struggles to lift his hands from where they were propping him and his knees up and signs where Blitz can see, Nothing specific. Thought you knew. I only hear my name, nothing very clear. Assumed you wanted me, so I came. He leans back very suddenly and looks alarmed. Did you need me? If not, I can --

Somehow Blitz has learned to interrupt the flow of fluent ASL with ease. Both in signs and with his voice, he insists, "No! No, of course not. I mean, yes, Hearth, I did need you -- er, I wanted you -- I mean, no, don't leave." He exhales. "Just...stay. Okay?"

You are sad. Confused, Hearth signs unexpectedly.

Blitz stands up all the way and frowns. He makes his way to the bed and sits down on its edge. Since it was probably torture for Hearth to try and read his lips in this darkness, he signs, What makes you say that?

I see it in your eyes, Hearth replies, his head tilted, eyes calculating, observing, soft, knowing. It really does something to Blitz. Especially his stomach. Those Jormungand-sized dragons were coming back. Look torn. A little helpless. I know you. Speak. Hearth comes over and stands in front of Blitz, bending down a bit. Blitz still has to crane his neck back to look up at him. There's a bit of pressure on both of his thighs, and Blitz's face erupts with heat when he sees that Hearth's hands were the cause of it.

"What should I say?" Blitz chokes out, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

Hearth shrugs, momentarily moving his hands to sign, first pointing to himself, then Blitz. Then he hooks his pointer fingers together one way, and then hooks them the other way. Just those few movements tells Blitz what Hearth is trying to say.

I'm your best friend. I care. Tell me everything.

Blitz gives a tortured sigh and hangs his head. His throat begins to burn, as do his eyes. Brilliant. He's about to cry in front of Hearth, because he really does want to admit everything but to do so would ruin this friendship -- no, brotherhood, that they have together. "Would you believe me if I kept saying it was excitement?" Blitzen tries one more time, looking up, his voice dry and devoid of emotion.

The effect is immediate. Hearth sees right through him, and his face turns from concern to instant horror and distress. He gives Blitz just enough time for the latter to try to compose himself and the former to sign incredulously, You're crying, before a pine-and-cinnamon-smelling body cannons into the dwarf, nudging his legs apart until Blitz parts his knees to give Hearth better access. Immediately there's arms locked around him in a vise, a head cradled by Blitz's neck, a scarf pressing into his face. Suddenly Blitz is thrown back into the nights they shared together, wrapped in the thin blankets of their sleeping bags as well as each other's limbs. Blitz remembers gazing into Hearth's eyes, a paradox more beautiful than Gleipnir. To any outsider, they're cold and bleak and hard; gray peaks of ice without a heart. But to Blitz, they're a source of silvery-blue warmth that stays true to Hearth's name, a blazing inferno of celeste and cloud that sweeps up all of Blitz's inhibitions and doubts and fears into a nonexistent pile of ashes. 

That is the beauty of Hearth. Words of every day people were wasted on meaningless statements of sentiment and affection. But with Hearth, you have to be open and real. And there is nothing more open or real than being able to look into those eyes every day and seeing just how much you're cared for by a single living elf, someone so indebted to you for saving their life that they would use a rune of sacrifice, would bear their neck for an apocalyptic rabid wolf, to save a life that they had already thought was gone. Hearth didn't need words to touch people. Heck, Blitz only needed four meaningless signs made when Hearth was more out of it than Thor at a liquor party to find out where his heart had been lying all along.

Butterfly, pop, yippee, washing machine. Those words are like a burning cancer, infectious and growing inside of Blitz until he bursts.

And burst he does. He doesn't realize he's openly sobbing until the grip on him tightens even more somehow, and Hearth's fingers are tangled in his hair, petting him the way Freya does with her lion-sized Siamese cat. Blitz is hanging onto Hearth, crying like a newborn baby on his shoulder, his hands involuntarily twisting into and latching themselves onto Hearth's thin clothing as if he was hanging off of that cliff in Jotunheim and Hearth was his last lifeline.

The hug lasts about ten more seconds before Hearth pulls away, but only so much so that he's still squatting in front of Blitz, their faces inches apart. Blitz finds himself staring into this annoyingly gorgeous eyes again, hating and loving the way they reach inside of him like tendrils and pull out his emotions one by one, examining them before putting them back in their rightful places. And still Hearth takes his hands away from Blitz's body to sign, Tell me. Please.

At this point Blitz is so emotionally ruined and unstable that he gives Hearth the answer almost immediately. Shivering hard, so hard that Hearth holds onto his biceps to steady him, he signs four words to Hearth.

Butterfly.

Pop.

Yippee.

Washing machine.

And then a hand made with his ring and middle fingers curled with the other three still outstretched:

I love you.

And both of them are well aware that it isn't platonic.

Blitz is so dazed that he doesn't even have time to register that he may just have ruined everything. But he didn't. Because there's a tear making its way down Hearth's cheek, disappearing into the folds of his scarf. And then there's another hand at Blitz's face, three tender fingers holding his chin, turning his face down to Hearth, and the elf is holding up the same gesture back up to Blitz.

I love you too.

Blitz stares at him, eyes still streaming, and then one sob leaps from his throat before he pulls Hearth back up to hug him tightly. Hearth grips him back with as much gusto as Blitz had the first time, if not more. The elf swings them both up on the bed and somehow maneuvers them with Blitz still latched onto his neck, making it so that Blitz's legs were fastened around Hearth's hips, sitting in his lap. Blitz's chest is wracked with sobs, not a single one of them negative. Joy is there prominently, of course. A little regret, that they didn't tell each other sooner. But most of all, there's relief, there's peace, there's love. There's courage, enough of it for Blitz to lean back and then cup Hearth's face, giving him that tiny but heartbreakingly genuine smile that Hearth always gave him before pulling them in all the way.

Their lips connect, and another piece of Blitz's slowly completing jigsaw puzzle of a soul falls into place. And he knows that for Hearth, well, his pethros has just been filled up a quarter more. And with each second that passes by, a fashion-crazed, narcoleptic/insomnia-plagued dwarf and an abused, candy-cane-scarved elf magician engaged in a kiss that speaks words that can never properly be spoken in volumes are slowly being built up, completed, filled, freed. And though Blitz wants to kiss Hearth forever, Ragnarok be damned, he does not. Rather he pulls away real quick, one question on his mind. "Will I see you again? I mean, soon? Like will you visit?" Alright, that's three questions, but that doesn't matter.

His abrupt statement is so random, so out of place, so forgotten in this moment that it takes Hearth approximately eight seconds to understand it. Quite reluctantly he removes his hands and signs, Like H-E-L-H-I-E-M I won't visit. Of course, idiot. Every week. No, every other day.

"Good enough for me."

Then the emotions come back, rather angry at being interrupted, and then Hearth presses their heads back together, Blitz willingly obliging. The air between them was homey, pine and apple and a little of the smoke from the fireplace, and Blitz can feel them breathing in the same space. It gives him a sense of security, comfort, acceptance, desire, love. And he knows Hearth is feeling the same things for the first time in the elf's life. Maybe Blitz could never truly replace the empty pieces of Hearth's heart that had been brutally ripped out by his family when he was young, but he could do his best to mend them or, at least, add more to other places. After all, he was a dwarf. They're master craftsmen. Hearth had personally acknowledged that. How different could rebuilding a broken heart be, compared with reinforcing old chairs and tables?

They drink in each other's company and newly found passion with ease until Blitz leans away one last time, just enough to whisper for good measure (really, it was overkill, but neither objected), "I love you, Hearthstone," before he resumes the kiss, a fresh wave of tears arriving.

And even if Hearth can never properly say those words back to Blitz as accordingly, well, everyone knows how well he gets his point across regardless.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I'll admit, not my worst work. Especially out of the ones written past midnight. In any case, thanks for reading! Leave a comment below with any feedback, suggestions, or prompts (whether it be one for Blitzstone, one of my shipped ships -- in which there is a list on my profile -- or one of your own favorites). I hope you enjoyed!


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